


Today

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On watch, Sam attends to Frodo’s needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The watch has been an uneventful one, which is the best-case scenario on this journey. The only sound he hears since he started is the quiet footfalls that come up behind him. He recognizes them right away, that instinct giving him relief; it’s just his Sam. 

It isn’t Sam’s turn next, and Frodo’s isn’t over. But Sam comes up behind him anyway without Frodo having to turn. He stands still against the tree, one hand slipping from the gnarled bark, and by the time he turns his face aside, Sam’s already against him. Both of Sam’s strong arms wrap around his middle, Sam’s larger feet bracketing his own. Sam pulls him in tight, so that Frodo’s spine is flush against Sam’s chest, and the familiar warmth and strength floods into him; he could’ve never made this journey without his Sam. 

Sam kisses the back of his head and murmurs into his dark curls, “How are you, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo means to answer, but a sharp breath is all that filters out. He arches back into Sam, his head falling to rest on Sam’s shoulder, and he rolls himself into his loyal servant, his arms folding over Sam’s. He admits in a needy whisper, “I miss my faithful gardener taking care of all my needs.” Sam smiles. It’s always cute. He always looks a little bashful, like he still can’t believe they’ve developed this way, even though Frodo can’t remember a time when he _didn’t_ want Sam. It was inevitable, after seeing such a handsome hobbit toil away in his gardens, sweating under the hot Shire sun, and getting all those furtive, longing looks. Sam always seems to think Frodo’s better than he is. 

Sam helps him now, with broad, searching hands running across his middle, lifting under his shirt and creeping below the hem of his trousers. Frodo lifts his hands aside, letting Sam work, and Sam kisses the shell of his ear, mumbling, “I’ve got you, Mr. Frodo.” Frodo’s eyes fall close, and he dons an amused smile. Even like this, Sam gives him the title. 

Sam slips his fat fingers down between Frodo’s legs and cups him, pulling him back and in, his rear ground into Sam’s crotch. The other hand splays down his inner thigh, teasing the sensitive flesh. Sam only rubs at him at first, four eager fingers curling against his slit, the thumb pressed against the crease of his thigh. Sam explores both thighs before he runs his free hand back up to secure Frodo around the waist, holding him up. It’s necessary, because Frodo’s knees are becoming weak, and he doesn’t want to fall. 

He keens against Sam’s cheek and gasps, “Sam,” feather-light. They have the whole camp behind them. They’ve had no time on this journey, nowhere private and safe, to taste each other properly. But Sam’s always been good with his hands, and the smell, the feel of him, is enough. It doesn’t take long for Frodo to become wet for him, his body yearning to have Sam _inside him_.

He doesn’t have to tell Sam what he wants, not anymore, which is good, because Frodo might be _strange_ and _crude_ and too wanton for his gardener, but he’s still a hobbit. He can’t quite beg the way he wants to, say all the filthy things he wants his Sam to do to him. He can only moan Sam’s name and hope he’s given some part of Sam—he’d take any part. He gets Sam’s probing fingers slipping easier along his moist lips, the juices dribbling out as Sam kneads him, squeezing it loose. Sam groans in Frodo’s ear. He squeezes particularly hard, forcing Frodo to arch up and gasp, and then he drags his middle finger down the center, pressing between Frodo’s folds. 

It’s easy for Sam to slip inside. Frodo’s ready for him, keen and waiting. Sam’s always gentle anyway; he could plunge right in, but instead he explores, massages Frodo’s warm insides until they’re quivering with want and nothing Sam could do would hurt him. Sam strokes and pets and pushes deeper, one small length at a time. His blunt fingertip finds Frodo’s inner channel and pops inside—Frodo has to bite his lip to stifle his cry. 

Sam kisses him the whole way through. Sam kisses the back of his head, the shell of his ear, the exposed skin of his neck and his clothed shoulder, and when Frodo turns, Sam can kiss his cheek and the corner of his mouth. Sam presses another finger inside, slowly and smooth. It’s no wonder he can coax all Frodo’s saplings into trees. He curls two fingers alone Frodo’s channel and teases Frodo’s walls, which start to spasm lightly around him. Frodo clenches down, wanting to hold Sam in, but Sam draws out anyway. Sam pushes back in again, setting an efficient rhythm to come and go, fill Frodo up and leave him too empty. Sam’s other fingers wriggle against the outside as they go, the thumb digging between his moist lips to find the little nub near the top that always makes him shiver. Sam rolls it around while he pumps Frodo full of his fingers, and Frodo becomes a melted puddle of _pleasure_ , every little touch filling him with delight. 

Sam’s so good to him. Sam holds him, strokes him, makes love to him with thick, knowing fingers and sprinkles his face in affection, while he holds onto Sam’s arm and covers his own mouth. He tries to stifle his moans in his palm, even though he knows Sam likes his noises—when they have the luxury of it, Frodo lets Sam hear everything he makes. But not here. Frodo swallows everything and reminds himself to make it up to Sam—when this is all over, if they come out alright, he’s going to take Sam into his bedroom, wherever that may be, and not leave until several moons have passed and they’re sticky and sweaty and overwrought with love.

“It’s alright,” Sam whispers in his ear, hot and safe and _there for him_. “I’ve got you, Mr. Frodo. I’ve got you.” It’s as good as telling Frodo to finish. He takes that command. Another few strokes, and he can’t take it anymore. He screams into his palm and tosses back against Sam, clenching hard around Sam’s fingers, and his vision blurs, the weight leaving his bones. He exists, for one blissful moment, only in his connection with _Sam_ , and the pleasure of it is all-consuming. He becomes one feeling and a single thought: _Sam_.

He slumps in Sam’s arms. He’s spent all around Sam’s fingers, still buried inside him, drawing out all the tremors. He thinks he’s going to fall, but Sam holds him steady. He doesn’t have the energy to hold up his arm anymore, and when it drops, he’s panting hard.

Sam draws his hand slowly out of Frodo’s body. It makes Frodo mewl and whimper, but Sam just holds him around the middle again, squeezing him in a fierce hug. Frodo feels wonderful. 

He still takes a few minutes to turn. He shuffles around in Sam’s arms, forcing them looser, even though Sam murmurs, “We’ll wake the others—”

Frodo mumbles, “I don’t care.” He fists his smaller fingers in Sam’s baggy shirt and kisses Sam hard on the lips, stale and messy and just what he’s been wanting. Sam gives in and kisses him back, always does, until Frodo slips a hand down into the waistband of Sam’s trousers. 

Sam opens his mouth and tries to protest—he always does when Frodo returns his favours, like he doesn’t deserve every bit as much and more—but Frodo just thrusts his tongue into Sam’s mouth. He dips inside the fabric and pets through the coarse blond hair, down along the stout shaft, and he wraps his fingers around it, wet from his own spittle. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows they shouldn’t do this—he’s on watch and he needs to be looking out—but then Sam’s tongue will stroke at his own and all he can think is _Sam, Sam, Sam._ He breaks their kiss to bury his face in Sam’s shoulder—Sam can take the look out. Mostly, he’s just too dizzy to coordinate their mouths. He squeezes Sam’s fat cock and starts to pump it within its confines, wondering if he has the wherewithal to take it in his mouth. 

Probably not. This will do. He holds onto Sam and strokes Sam and squeezes here and there—he knows what Sam likes, so off by heart that his body knows what to do. He licks at Sam’s neck in between, and Sam breathes heavier and heavier and gasps a strangled, “ _Frodo_ —”

It doesn’t take too long for Sam to come, which is a shame; Frodo likes the feel of Sam’s cock in his hand, hot and pulsing and leaking at the head. He tries to catch the bulk of it when Sam spills himself, Frodo’s palm latching around the end. Sam shudders against him, turning to bite into his neck and stifle the groan. Frodo kisses Sam back in turn. 

And then Sam’s spent as much as him, and Frodo pulls his hand out, bringing it up to lap away the mess. Sam watches him hazily lick the salty seed off his skin. He’s grown to like the taste, or maybe just what it represents, and it’s easier than trying to clean up in the middle of nowhere, though his own crotch is still a mess. Sam kisses him when he’s done, murmuring, “You’re amazing.”

Frodo just smiles. He’s tired, but mostly he’s happy—Sam’s a rare light against the darkness. Frodo would’ve never made it so far without him.

They’ve been more distracted than he thought. When Legolas appears, Frodo never heard him coming. Frodo tries to stumble at least a step away from Sam, but Sam’s hands linger on him, his on Sam’s. Legolas merely smiles kindly at them, whispering as hushed as them, “It is my turn for watch.” Frodo nods in thanks, blushing all over. The darkness of the night might hide it, but probably not from Elven eyes. 

Frodo and Sam walk back to camp together, hand in hand.


End file.
